


Misfire

by exhaustedwerewolf



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Accidents, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Momma Nott, Panic Attacks, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-blaming, Unhealthy Internal Monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhaustedwerewolf/pseuds/exhaustedwerewolf
Summary: A stray cantrip has painful consequences for Nott and Caleb alike.





	Misfire

**Author's Note:**

> promptfill for the badthingshappenbingo on tumblr: burns

Before the heat has even left his fingertips, Caleb knows that the spell is a dud, a write-off.

He could blame the moonless night- how is he supposed to aim, when between the pale shimmer of Fjord’s summerdance falchion, the bioluminescent bursts of Caduceus sacred flame, the forest is pitch-black, weak light sputtering in and out of existence like that of a dying candle?

He could blame the creature itself- he’s only ever read about displacer beasts, but a passage on parchment does not compare to the real thing- fur black as void rippling about them in the dark, the walls of an ever-changing maze, dagger-quick tendrils lashing out in the blackness. The smell of it, of animal rage, and of rot.

He could blame his injuries- the flesh is all but hanging off him where the beast ripped into him with its claws, and he is using his off-hand to cast as he clutches uselessly, foolishly, at the wound. The moment he lets loose the _Firebolt_ he tastes blood on his tongue, hot as the creature’s breath, which billows like gunsmoke in the night air.

The spell, which sails off into the darkness like a flare, or a falling star, is not the fault of bad luck, of the enemy, of circumstance. It is nothing but shameful; inadequacy, incompetence. He knows this quite vividly, even as his own consciousness seems to stutter in time with the throbs of pain, the pulsing of darkness and light.

 _Panic casting,_ Eodwulf had been known to whisper, teasingly, when they had both been assured that Ikithon’s gaze was for that moment turned elsewhere, and knew that friendly ribbing would be the only consequence for Caleb’s fault.

 _Embarrassing._ Caleb thinks distantly, even as Yasha half-gasps, half-yells in victory, and the spray of blood dapples his clothes and his face like warm rainfall.

Not a heartbeat later comes the cry of pain.

He has not yet quite come back to himself- his thoughts run slow and viscous, congealed with the hot and cloying pain. He takes an unsteady step forward- lists to one side, and is caught.

“Caleb! Oh my gosh, you’re hurt like, _really_ bad.” Jester’s hands are blessedly ice-cool against his skin. “Stay still.”

“Nott?” Fjord calls, as Jester’s magic spreads through Caleb’s veins, almost searingly cold at first, but soon crisp and clean as snow, after the sickly heat of the pain.

“Nott!” Fjord yells again, and as the burn of his wounds begins to ebb away, Caleb reclaims his bloodied hand to trace a glow-worm shape into the air, with an extended finger. But his _Dancing Lights_ pulse weakly, ghostly as phosphenes, and he only just glimpses the familiar shine of her yellow eyes before he hears an answering croak.

“Here.” Her voice wavers, and Caleb is at once pushing off of Jester, despite her noise of protest.

“Nott-” His voice comes out as a rasp, and as he moves towards her shadow, he stumbles.

“Caleb, take her easy.” Fjord, hearing him falter, speaks to him over his shoulder- and he does not see when Nott steps into the smudgey amber spell-light.

They are all bloodied, of course, but Nott is breathing sharply through clenched teeth. Her ears are folded back, her expression twisted into a grimace of pain. She has a claw-like grip around one arm, and Caleb sees the blistering of the skin there a split second before he comprehends it and stops dead.

“I…” He begins distantly. “I _burned_ you.”

“Oh, shit.” Beau says breathily, from somewhere behind him. Caleb barely hears her.

“It’s nothing!” Nott calls out, but the quiver in her words betrays her. She redoubles her efforts, limping towards him at as fast a pace as she can manage. Caleb takes a step back.

“Help her.” He hears himself saying, without looking away from what he can see of the wound- it’s bad, even in this light, he can tell that it is _bad_ \- “Jester. Yasha. Caduceus.”

Yasha shakes her head helplessly.

“Jester?” Caduceus intones, and Jester curses in reply.

“I can’t either, that was my last spell!” She says tearfully, twisting her tail in her hands. “Oh Nott, I am sorry!”

“That’s alright, Jester.” Nott says absently. “You had to heal Caleb.” She reaches him, and, with effort, unfurls her arm, offering her palm out. Caleb can see that she is shaking, just a little.

“Caleb?” She coaxes.

He sinks down to his knees in front of her, but does not take her hand, cannot tear his eyes from the burn to meet her gaze. He feels oddly numb, far away from himself- the way the feeling in your fingertips fades if you go out without gloves into Zemnian snows, but all over.

“It’ll scar.” His breathing is quickening, he hears it, but still, he does not seem to feel it. “If they can’t heal it now, it will scar-”

“It was an accident.” Nott says mildly. She leans to block his view of the mark, her owlish eyes stern. “I was hiding, Caleb. You didn’t even see me.”

He can smell it- an acrid scent, mingled with the singe of the ends of her hair where the impact struck her shoulder. The smell- people always assume it is just like cooking meat, but people forget that you don’t roast clothing, keratin- the night is hot and airless.

“I-,” He stops, breathless quite suddenly. “It will scar-”

“Caleb.” She interrupts, and now she takes his hands and guides them to her chest. “Breathe with me, okay? Do you want _Calm Emotions?_ ”

He shakes his head- he is beginning now, he realises, to cry- his breath coming in hiccoughs and gasps, tears welling up behind his eyes. He drops his gaze, and she dips her head, leans into him until their foreheads touch.

“Shhh,” She says. “I’m fine. We’re both fine.”

The breaths come juddering and fitful for what feels like an eternity, successive implosions in his lungs, and Nott holds firmly onto his hands, talking to him all the while.

“One. Two. Three Four.“ She counts. “Good, Caleb, now out- two. Three. Four.”

His exhale is trembling, but getting better.

“We’re fine. We’re fine.” She repeats.

Finally, he is in his own command again. When he opens his eyes again- for at some point, he forced them shut- they are heavy and dry and too tired to focus properly. She leans back from him, and with their fingers still interlocked, she lifts their hands so that he brushes a tear from his face with his knuckles.

“Okay?”

“ _Ja._ ” He murmurs, the word heavy with exhaustion. “ _Ja_ , I am okay.”

“Nott?” Caduceus says, voice soft and husky. “How’s about we see what we can do for you with bandages?”

Nott looks to Caleb questioningly, and he lets go of her hands.

“Please.” He says, unsure if he is addressing Nott or Caduceus.

Nott plants a kiss on his temple before she moves away from him.

-

Caleb finds himself, a little later on, sitting on a log, fussing over Frumpkin- scritching him behind the ears with great concentration, and intently ignoring the occasional concerned glances thrown in his direction from the rest of the Nein.

Now that the fire of the fight and his wounds has left him, it is cold. He is grateful that Frumpkin does not seem to mind the chill of his fingers. His chest is hollow. His throat is raw. His bones seem to ache with every breath.

When Nott scrambles up onto the log beside him, she doesn’t say anything, just turns to face out into the dark of the forest with him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb sees the gauze. Frumpkin stands up from where he has been settled on Caleb’s lap, stretches luxuriously, and trots over to Nott. She startles a little at the unexpected brush of his fur against her, but then she smiles, and scratches him under the chin.

“Nott.” Caleb says, still looking off into the shadows. “Please tell me honestly if you are alright.”

Nott sighs.

“It’ll scar.” She tells him honestly, running her fingers through Frumpkin’s fur. “And it hurt, but it’s fading already. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ve had worse.”

“I am sorry.” A breeze stirs the trees, and Caleb shudders. “I was careless, and you got hurt.”

“Caleb.” Nott says, and he feels her hand on his arm, turns to find her staring intently up at him. “You made a _mistake_.”

“Exactly-“ Caleb says and Nott shakes her head.

“One accident,” she tells him. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re great.”

He makes a doubtful noise, opens his mouth to protest, but quite suddenly, she throws herself forward to hug him with her good arm- Frumpkin leaping out of the way just in time.

“You’re still a great wizard.” Her words are muffled, spoken into his coat. “You’re still a great friend.”

Falteringly, Caleb puts his arms up to embrace her, and he exhales, long and shaky, the tension leaving him.

“It will heal?” He asks her, voice almost a whisper.

“It will heal.” She tells him. A breeze whispers through the forest, a susurrus sound, a sigh of relief.


End file.
